


Too Little, Too Late

by sparksfly7



Series: (not) too late [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Goodbyes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/pseuds/sparksfly7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Packing already?”</p><p>“We’re leaving tomorrow,” David points out.</p><p>“Yeah, I know.” Fernando shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I have to dwell on it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Too little, too late/差之毫厘](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964715) by [kiii17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiii17/pseuds/kiii17)



> I've been working on this fic for the past 5 days or so, and I've edited it a dozen times over, but I'm still not happy with it. David's characterization is all messed up (I cannot write him anymore, I just cannot), and their conversation didn't go the way I wanted it to, although I'm not even sure what I wanted by this point.
> 
> Nevertheless, this is something I felt--obligated to write, so - here it is.

“Hey.”

David looks up from packing his suitcase at Fernando, a half-folded polo shirt in hand. “Hey,” he replies.

“Packing already?”

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” he points out.

“Yeah, I know.” Fernando shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I have to dwell on it.”

David looks at Fernando, who still looks so young, still very much like a niño, even though neither of them has felt like their nickname for years. He remembers seeing Fernando cry after the game against Chile (a game in which he had gotten to play), how empty he looked afterwards, even with shadowed, red-rimmed eyes and tear tracks still on his face.

“Are you ready?” David asks.

“To leave?”

“Yeah, to leave.”

Fernando bites his lip, his lashes lowering over his eyes. “No, not yet.”

“Yeah, me neither.” David puts down the shirt in his hand and closes his suitcase. “It’s never easy to leave.”

“Then don’t,” Fernando blurts out.

“What?”

“Don’t go. Don’t retire yet.” Fernando’s voice is soft but with a hint of steel, and when he looks at David, his eyes are clear and steady.

“You know it’s not really up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to play in the MLS; it’s not exactly a place where people get called up for the national team.”

“Well, how do you know?” Fernando retorts. “You can’t just call it quits now. You’re just one goal away from sixty. Don’t you want to reach it, don’t you want to—”

“Of course I want to,” David interrupts. “You know I’d play for the national team until I need a cane. I want to, but that doesn’t mean—it’s not all up to me.”

“So you’re leaving before they can make you leave?” Fernando paraphrases, his voice sharp, and his gaze too, both almost cutting. “Is it the same thing with Atlético?”

“What are you, my manager now?” David raises an eyebrow. Just a few months ago, Fernando’s tone would have angered him, and he probably would’ve said something just as sharp back, but – it’s strange, how much he’s matured lately. Even in your thirties, you can still suddenly grow up. “I know what I’m doing, Fernando, and I don’t need you to patronize me.”

“I’m not patronizing you, I just—” Fernando turns his face away, a hint of colour coming over his cheekbones. David watches him, completely bemused. What’s going on? “I don’t want you to go.”

And now he really does sound like a niño, like the lanky, towheaded boy who wouldn’t speak two words to David when they first met, out of what David mistook as attitude but was really shyness.

“I don’t want to go either,” David’s voice softens, “but it’s not all up to me.”

“If he calls you up again, would you come?”

“I don’t think he’s going to call me up again, Fernando. Let’s be realistic here.” David runs a hand through his hair. “If he wouldn’t let me play ninety minutes in my last match, a total dead rubber, then…”

Fernando looks—there is a sense of dismay in his expression, followed suddenly by anger, which tightens his jaw and makes his eyes blaze. “You’re not the only one who’s angry at him, you know.”

“You’re angry at him?” David smiles, without humour. “For what? Being a substitute for Costa instead of a starter? At least you got to play when it really mattered.”

And Fernando got to play the whole match against Australia too. He would always be Spain’s golden boy, huh? Even now, when the golden years are far behind him, he’s still preferred to David, time and time again.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” Fernando asks quietly.

“Not mad. Just – it’s not your fault he prefers you over me. Maybe he has a reason to. I’m not the player I used to be.”

“Neither am I.”

David shrugs. “Maybe that’s why we’re going home so early. We’re not champions anymore.”

“We could be again, one day.” Fernando is silent for a moment. “And I want you to be there. I want to play with you.”

“Fernando.” David struggles with words; they’ve never come easily to him and they tend to fail him the most when it matters. “It’s been nine years. That’s not a short time. Nothing lasts forever, right? We’ve accomplished a lot, and I’m going to tie up my boots soon anyway. This isn’t just about the national team; it’s about football in general.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” Fernando whispers again, his voice so very small and so very young. David doesn’t know what to say to that voice, to those big brown eyes that hold more cynicism than innocence, but still, a trace of the latter remains.

“Well,” David says, as gently as he can muster. “It’s not all about what you want, right? This is my career, my life.”

He expects Fernando to bridle at that, maybe snap at him, say a few choice words, or at least give him that Fernando glare of his. But Fernando doesn’t do any of that. He just looks at David with those soft, dark eyes, eyes that have aged so much even though his face hasn’t.

“So you’re just going to walk away?” he asks, his voice more defeated than frustrated.

“Better walk away than limp away.”

“I meant that I was angry at del Bosque over you. He shouldn’t have done that. He should have given you the whole match, and he should have played you before then.”

David shrugs again. “It doesn’t matter now what he should or shouldn’t have done. What’s over is over. Nothing can be changed now.”

He means it in a greater sense, more than just what happened with him. They’re out of the World Cup with only a point, conceding almost as many goals as they scored last time, having had a nightmare of a first game and a demoralizing loss of a second, and they have a flight home tomorrow. It’s over. Nothing can be changed now.

“Besides,” David adds offhandedly. “It would have been you or me, coming on for Costa. It’s not like you would have given up your position for me, even if you could.”

Fernando’s expression tightens. “How do you know that?”

“Because you’re a striker, just like me,” David says simply. “No striker wants to give his spot up, his chance for goal up. It’s the way we are; it’s built in us. We don’t want to score to win a trophy; we want to score to score.”

“My reasons aren’t as noble as yours.” Fernando’s jaw clenches, his eyes flashing. “I want to score to prove my worth.”

“Everyone wants to prove their worth.”

“Some people don’t have to.”

David looks at the storm brewing in Fernando’s eyes, wonders if there’s more going on than he realizes. He doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort Fernando (he’s always been better at hurting people than comforting them), and he can feel tension rising between them, building like electricity, invisible but crackling all around them.

“I know I’m not worth a lot,” Fernando admits, his shoulders slumping. “I just thought I had more to give than this. Than one goal in a game that doesn’t even matter, against the weakest team in the group.”

“That makes me feel a lot better,” David says lightly.

“It’s different, with you. Your goal was – it was a backheel flick.”

“It was pretty great,” David agrees, and Fernando cracks a smile. “You know, we didn’t have a good tournament. The whole team. It’s not just you.”

“Are you calling me self-centered?”

Now this is more like the Fernando he knows.

“That’s not—”

“Sorry,” Fernando blurts out, surprising David, who hadn’t been expecting an apology in the slightest. “Don’t – don’t mind me.”

“Is it that time of the month again?”

Fernando doesn’t smile, but something lightens in his eyes. “You’re finally joking around again. I haven’t heard you doing it much lately.”

There hasn’t been much of an occasion for humour, David thinks, but instead he asks flippantly, “What, have you been keeping an eye on me?”

Fernando doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Yes.”

“Okay, that’s not creepy at all.”

Fernando’s expression doesn’t change; he just looks at David, intensely, almost—greedily. It’s a strange word to use, but David can’t think of another one. It’s like Fernando will never see him again and he has to make do with all that he can get right now. His gaze is…unsettling.

“I don’t want you to go,” Fernando says for the third time, but in a different tone of voice. It’s soft, sad, almost—pleading, like he’s begging him to stay.

David’s never heard Fernando beg for anything, not in the decade plus years he’s known him. It surprises him, and more than that, it alarms him. There must be something deeper that’s going on. Are some of their teammates treating Fernando badly? Has something happened at Chelsea? Why is he acting like this?

“Nando,” he broaches. “Is something wrong?”

Fernando smiles suddenly; a small, boyish smile. “I can’t remember the last time you called me that.”

David didn’t even realize the nickname had slipped out. He doesn’t know why it did, either. “Answer my question,” he says, not harshly but not gently either.

“A lot of things are wrong. We’re going home tomorrow, for one.”

“That’s not what’s really bothering you.” David can be dense, but he’s not stupid. There’s clearly something else going on.

“Well, what do you think is really bothering me then, Sherlock?”

“If I knew, would I be asking you?”

“Why don’t you know?” Fernando asks, his eyes dark, pained. “How do you not know by this point? Juan does. Pepe does.”

“Know what?” David asks, completely bewildered.

“You’re so stupid, David,” Fernando sighs, and suddenly his face is very close, close enough for David to count his freckles, and then he’s too close even for that as his mouth slants over David’s.

David’s mind goes blank. There’s no other way to put it. Fernando’s mouth is gentle but firm against his, a warm, coaxing pressure, his tongue tracing along the seam of David’s lips, asking for permission. David opens his mouth, only half-aware of what he’s doing, and Fernando takes full advantage of it. He presses David against the bed, body completely covering his – sometimes David forgets how much taller Fernando is than him – his kiss becoming more heated, more demanding, more—greedy.

“Fernando,” David gasps, breaking away for air. Fernando stares at him, eyes huge and hungry, standing out like abysses on his pale face. “What the hell are you doing?”

Fernando straightens and shifts so they’re both sitting up instead of being pressed against each other. David’s pulse is hammering against the base of his throat, and he can’t get it to calm. He’s sure Fernando can see it.

“You’re leaving, and if I don’t tell you now, I’ll never get to.”

“Tell me what?” Is kissing the new form of communication these days? Fernando hasn’t _told_ him anything.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Fernando breathes, looking at David from underneath his lashes. “So long, David.”

David can barely catch his breath. “You have?” He looks at Fernando, confusion bleeding into weariness. “You’ve wanted to sleep with me for a long time?”

Fernando’s voice is very quiet when he replies. “Not just sleep with you.”

“Is this some kind of… Did someone put you up to this?”

“Nobody put me up to this.” Fernando sounds hurt now. “There aren’t any hidden cameras around. This isn’t a prank, David.”

David stares at him. “Then what is it?”

“I just… I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I always thought there would be more time, I always told myself that I could tell you later.” Fernando’s eyes drift away, to the floor, the walls, the bedspread, anywhere but David’s face. “Now, I’ve realized that there is no later. There’s only now.”

David’s voice softens. “Fernando…”

“So I’m going to tell you now.” Fernando looks up, his face pale but determined, his eyes clear and intent. “Do you – do you remember in Euros, when you scored that third goal and you ran to the bench to hug me?”

“And I caught my finger in your shirt and broke it?” David asks wryly. “Yeah, I remember.”

“That was when it started,” Fernando whispers, his voice almost dying away.

“Euros? That was—so long ago.” David looks at Fernando with wide eyes, in a new light. Six years. It has been six years.

“And then in the locker room, you asked me to sign the match ball first,” Fernando continues, his voice a little louder. “And you hugged me again, and thanked me.”

“I did?”

“I guess you forgot, huh? It’s been a while.”

“But you remember,” David says quietly.

“I remember,” Fernando confirms. “I remember a lot of things.”

David doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just looks at Fernando: the dark, cropped hair that’s barely more than fuzz, so different from the terrible blonde mullet he had when they first met; the freckles that look to have multiplied over the years; the brown eyes that are fixed on him, filled with a strange mixture of dread and hope.

“This is it, you know,” David says. “I’m leaving. And you’re staying.”

“I know. That’s why I had to take my chance now.”

“Fernando, I’m going to New York. It’s on the other side of the world.”

“I do have a basic awareness of geography, David.”

“You don’t seem very aware to me,” David counters, looking intently at him.

Fernando gazes back at him unflinchingly. “That comes with the territory.”

“You—” David’s throat dries up. “You’re serious?”

Fernando nods. That’s his only reply, although his eyes speak volumes by themselves. Silence falls over them, heavy and pressing and suffused with the words that neither of them says.

Finally, David speaks. “I-I’m sorry, Fernando.” He looks away; he can’t bear to meet those eyes. “I don’t—feel that way.”

Fernando doesn’t say anything in reply. He doesn’t say anything at all. David doesn’t think he can look at him yet, so he just keeps staring at the wall, waiting for Fernando to react.

“I’m sorry about kissing you,” Fernando says in a toneless voice. An empty voice. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yes,” David agrees, speaking around the knot in his throat. “You shouldn’t have.”

_You shouldn’t have told me, because there may only be now, but now is already too late. Too little, too late._

“I’ll just…leave now.” Fernando’s voice is still hollow.

David can’t do the same with his, but he manages to speak placidly. “I think you should.”

“David. Please look at me.” He hesitates. “I promise I won’t touch you,” Fernando adds, bitterly enough for David to do what he says.

Fernando’s looking at him, just looking at him, not angrily, or sadly, just…steadily. David swallows, and he wants to look away again, but something in Fernando’s eyes holds him in place.

“If you…ever need help with English or something, I’m here,” Fernando says, slowly and carefully. “You’ve played in La Liga for your whole career; this is going to be a big change.”

“I know.” A bit of flippancy returns to David’s tone. “What, do you think I can’t do it?”

“No, I’m sure you can do it.” Fernando’s lips tilt up, halfway to a smile. “You’re El Guaje, after all.”

David snorts. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

Fernando makes an acquiescent sound. “Neither am I.”

“The younger players should be given more chances. There are a lot of budding stars; I think our future looks bright.”

“It’ll be a future without us though,” Fernando says quietly. “So how can you really call it ‘our’ future?”

“Is that what you’re really worried about? That you and I are headed down the same paths?” He thinks he understands Fernando’s reaction better now. “You’re three years younger than me, you know. You still have time.”

“Barely more than two, really,” Fernando corrects in an offhand voice. “Your birthday’s so late.”

“You remember when my birthday is?” David asks teasingly, only the words almost get stuck in his throat and don’t come out nearly as lightly as he intended.

“I remember a lot of things,” Fernando repeats, in a voice that almost fades away. He blinks and jerks his head to the side, like he’s trying to physically shake away his thoughts. “We’re not so different, David. Our best years are behind us. Mine left me before yours left you.”

David rubs his hand over his calf, remembers the ghost of an ache that didn’t leave him for a long time, even after his injury healed. “You’re still playing for a top European club, in one of the best leagues in the world.” He almost puts his hand on Fernando’s shoulder, but something stops him from moving. “You still have a lot to give, so don’t sound so—”

“Mopey?” Fernando suggests. “Whiney?”

“I was going to say dejected, but sure, those words work too.”

“I guess I’m all of the above,” Fernando says, and this time, he’s the one who won’t make eye contact.

“Well, snap out of it,” David says, brisk, matter-of-fact. “You can’t decide much, but you can decide your attitude.”

Fernando gives him a look that he can only describe as admiring. “I meant what I said, you know,” he says quietly.

“About what?”

“That I know you’ll do well.” Fernando smiles a little. “I believe in you.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his voice; faith without pressure, softness without expectation. It’s painful, somehow, to hear.

“Thank you,” David says, for lack of a reply.

Fernando gives a slight shrug. “For what? You’ve always proven yourself. I’m just telling the truth.”

“Hmm. My last season at Barcelona wasn’t exactly headline material.”

“You _broke your leg_.”

“You pretty much broke your knee too. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me that?”

David chuckles. “Fair enough.”

There’s another long stretch of silence between them, but this time it’s strangely comfortable. He hasn’t talked to Fernando like this, really talked to him, in a long time. He finds that he’s missed these candid conversations between them. Fernando understands him; they understand each other. Maybe it’s that they’re both forwards, or they’ve played together for years, or—whatever it is, he’s grateful for these years together with Fernando, not just as strike partners, but as friends.

As for the possibility of anything more…

 _Too little, too late,_ he tells himself.

“David,” Fernando says in a voice filled with quiet intensity. “I should get going. I need to pack too.”

David nods. His throat is tight again. “Right.”

“Can I—” Fernando holds his arms out awkwardly, biting his lip. “I swear, it’s just – I won’t – this is goodbye now…”

David steps into the offer of Fernando’s embrace. They’ve shared countless hugs over the years, although nothing quite as exuberant as their Euros antics, but only when Fernando’s arms come around him does he realize how long it’s been. Even on the pitch, after his goal, they hadn’t hugged.

“David,” Fernando breathes, just his name.

“Yeah?”

Fernando’s arms tighten around him, vice-like, and David feels his breathing constrict, his ribs protesting, but he doesn’t try to move away. “Goodbye,” Fernando whispers, pressing his lips against David’s hair, leaving their invisible imprint behind, and then suddenly his touch is gone.

David stares as Fernando practically darts out of his room, hesitating for a moment at the doorway, his back to David, his shoulders tense and hunched.

 _Don’t go_ waits at the tip of David’s tongue, a heartbeat away from slipping out. But he doesn’t say it, he doesn’t say anything at all, he just watches as Fernando disappears out the doorway and out of his life.

 _Too little, too late_ , he tries to tell himself again, but it’s hard not to think of what could have been. It is always these ghosts, the one of unfulfilled possibilities, choices not made and paths not taken, that end up haunting you.


End file.
